


stinging like a bee, I earned my stripes

by thekaidonovskys



Series: After the Drift [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Insecurity, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2030706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekaidonovskys/pseuds/thekaidonovskys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have worked with you for ten years and never taken the time to learn about your tattoos, nor form a personal opinion apart from unprofessional, which I now retract. Will you permit me to tell you how I feel about them?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	stinging like a bee, I earned my stripes

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted by Tumblr user thekaidonovskys

He’s always thought they were just sleeves. 

Mainly because there was no reason to presume otherwise, especially with little to no expertise on tattoos at all. He’s seen Newt’s forearms, and it’s clear that the designs carry on further than his elbows, but he… well, he just hadn’t  _needed_ to think about how much further they go. 

Until now. 

Newt’s unknotting his tie, the process rather drawn out as his eyes keep creeping back up to Hermann, who’s already taken the initiative and removed his shirt. They’ve agreed that this is simply about getting comfortable and that they’re not going to go further than kissing tonight (because there’s going to have to be a long discussion about Hermann’s leg and what they can and can’t do, and Hermann really doesn’t want to have to stop them in the middle of something), but the quiet admiration in Newt’s eyes is doing unfair things to Hermann’s emotions, and as lovely as it makes him feel he kind of wants to be able to do the same if Newt would just  _hurry up_.

Finally, the tie’s off, and Newt begins working on his buttons. Hermann watches, watches his fingers tremble slightly, and is just about to offer a reassurance of some kind when his eyes are caught by the first shock of colour, trailing across Newt’s collarbone and he’s stunned into silence. All he can do is stare as Newt slowly reveals more and more skin. 

More and more  _colour._

When the shirt finally slips from his arms, the complete effect is revealed, and Hermann has the answer to the question he’s never asked until now - because the sleeves don’t stop. They trail up his arms and link into a vibrant cacophony of colour and ink across his chest, bleeding down to his stomach and… 

Hermann swallows hard. Because, as far as he can tell, they don’t stop there either. 

“Hermann?” comes a timid voice, and Hermann’s eyes snap up to meet Newt’s, who’s fidgeting slightly. “Um? Is that… good staring?”

Hermann swallows again, trying to find words. “Could you… could you turn around?” he asks.

Newt frowns, but obeys. Sure enough, his back is another canvas, the colours just as bright and intricate. And again, there’s no stopping point, the lines fluid and interweaving back through to the designs on his front, on his arms, and down… 

Newt turns back around, and Hermann realizes he’s almost scared him off. “I’m sorry,” Hermann says quickly. “I just never knew they… I thought it was just your arms.”

Something in Newt’s expression switches off, and he reaches for his shirt. “I knew this was gonna happen,” he mutters as he fumbles with the sleeves. 

“No, wait, hold on,” Hermann says, frowning. “What are you doing?”

“Covering them up. Knew you wouldn’t like them -“

“Did I say I didn’t like them?” Newt stills, one arm halfway back into its sleeve, and Hermann smiles. “Surprise is very different from dislike, Newton. I needed a moment to take it in.”

“And now that you have?”

Hermann pats the bed next to him. “Come here.”

Warily, Newt lets the shirt drop back to the ground and comes to sit next to Hermann. He’s on the defensive, Hermann can tell, waiting for any signs of negativity. “You don’t have to like them,” he says, his voice quiet. “Not many people do, or if they do they only like some parts, not the whole… effect. I guess if you can just tolerate them then it’s okay.”

But Hermann knows that isn’t true, knows that Newt’s just saying that to give him an out. For Hermann to dislike the tattoos would be for him to dislike  _Newt_ , and Newt just isn’t prepared for that. His tattoos _are_ him, are Newt’s very presence and personality. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, but Newt has literally put his entire  _being_ on his skin, in colour and creation. And if Hermann rejects it, he rejects Newt. 

He’s not going to reject Newt. 

“May I touch them?”

Newt blinks a couple of times, then shrugs. “Sure, I guess? It just feels like… like skin.”

Hermann runs his fingers lightly up Newt’s arm, stopping at his shoulder. “It does,” he agrees, his voice dropping lower than expected. “But it’s your skin.”

Newt swallows, and just watches him with wide eyes as Hermann’s fingers gently map out the connections between tattoos, dragging across his chest and down to his navel, resting there for a moment. He’s never expected himself to be this bold, thought for certain that Newt would be the one to make the first move, but despite Newt’s fears to the contrary, the tattoos have actually given him an in. 

He reluctantly moves his hand, looking back up at Newt. “How long did all of these take?” he asks.

“Um…” Newt shakes his head, as if to clear it, and Hermann bites back a self-satisfied smile. “Probably… four days worth, all up? But I had to wait between sessions.”

Hermann nods. “And… how far down do they go?”

Newt looks down at his body, then suddenly laughs. “Oh, right, yeah, that looks… nah, they don’t go that far. Just below my hips. I don’t have the masochism for anything more. You’re basically seeing all of it.”

“Pain?”

“Lots. But worth it, for me anyway. And this is totally supposed to be about us getting used to one another, not me going on about my tattoos.”

“This is us getting used to one another,” Hermann points out gently. “Would you rather I had simply ignored them?”

Newt sighs and shakes his head. “No, I guess not. They’re kind of… there.”

“They’re very there. They’re also you, Newton. If I’m learning about you, I want to learn about all of you and that includes the ink on your skin. It is as much you as the rest of you.”

The spark that had evaporated from Newt’s eyes has finally returned as he stares at Hermann. It’s hope, Hermann realizes now. “You actually get that,” he murmurs. “Nobody else does.”

“I have the advantage of having been in your mind,” Hermann reminds him. “And I’m glad. I like understanding this and knowing what they mean. I have worked with you for ten years and never taken the time to learn about your tattoos, nor form a personal opinion apart from  _unprofessional_ , which I now retract. Will you permit me to tell you how I feel about them?”

Newt tenses up, but nods anyway. “Yeah, okay. Better get it out of the way now.”

Hermann takes Newt’s hand, letting their arms rest together. He looks down at them for a moment, at his pale skin next to the colours of Newt’s, and smiles. “Well, to begin, they are  _Kaiju._ Which, with a mind that only saw the Kaiju in terms of numbers and logic, never made sense to me. But after the Drift, after not only seeing their minds but also yours and how you’ve always seen them, I understand more. You have spent ten years looking at the Kaiju as beings, looking to understand them instead of understanding their patterns, as I did. Your tattoos represent your life’s work and even more so now, now that the Kaiju are gone. They represent victory.”

Newt smiles a little at that. “Yeah, I’m getting that a bit now. Lots of people want to see the sleeves… less people want them themselves.”

“And I imagine for many of those people it would be that they could not endure the pain anyway,” Hermann says. “Because your tattoos also represent great strength, and great commitment. A high pain tolerance, not just for the physical pain but certainly an inner strength as well, again as evidenced through the Drift. It may have been foolish and ill-advised, but it was also very very brave. Much braver than any pilot.”

He’s slightly regretting the level of praise he’s giving, as Newt is almost preening now. Still, at least he’s more confident, and that’s what Hermann wants to see. “You were brave too,” Newt points out. “You Drifted.”

“I would never have done it if it were the first time,” Hermann admits readily. “Since you had survived it once, I determined that my safety was likely to be secure.”

“Oh, so I’m just your guinea pig?” Newt doesn’t look upset though, smiling as he squeezes Hermann’s hand, though that fades after a second. “You… uh, you still haven’t said what  _you_ think of them. Because all of that could be true -“

“Is true.”

“- and you could still hate the way they look. I mean, unless I never take my shirt off again and I kinda don’t want to do that, you can’t ignore them.”

“I cannot,” Hermann agrees. “They are striking and vibrant and unavoidable, but why anyone would wish to avoid them is incomprehensible. Now that I have seen them all and understood, have taken the time to actually  _see_ them, and not just as tattoos but as art, I can see the beauty in them. And I would never _ever_ do it to myself,” Hermann adds, and Newt smiles, “but that is simply because this would never suit me. On you it works, because you make it work. It is every bit as much a part of you as anything else that makes you who you are. And if I adore all of you, how could I not adore them?”

A few beats of silence then, in a slightly unsteady voice - “You know what, Hermann?”

“What?”

“Never had you pegged as a fucking  _poet_.”

Hermann laughs. “I should hope not. Poetry is a lie.”

“Along with politics and promises,” Newt says, grinning. “I nearly burst a blood vessel rolling my eyes when you came out with that line.” Hermann sighs theatrically - because he knows Newt's disdain for his choice of words runs about as deep as Hermann's dislike of Newt's tattoos - and Newt’s grin softens to a smile. “Seriously, though, I’ve never felt so comfortable with my shirt off before. Thanks.”

“And in reassuring you, I’ve quite forgotten that I am in the same state,” Hermann admits. “Which makes me feel better about my inadequacies.”

“Are you fucking  _kidding_?” Newt demands. “I forgot how to breathe for a second when you took your shirt off, you’re like seriously hot and you hide it under that  _fucking_ sweater. I’m gonna burn it.”

“You will do no such thing,” Hermann says, but he’s smiling, possibly even blushing, though he chooses not to admit the latter.

“Seriously, though,” Newt says, “I probably can’t do quite as eloquent a speech as you gave me, but you’ve got nothing to worry about, Herms. You haven’t got a single…  _inadequacy_ , as you put it. I’m gonna be nervous to so much as touch you from now on because you’re a  _twig_ , but it’s a good kind of twig. The attractive kind. And like I said, really not good at the whole eloquent thing.”

Hermann chuckles and lets go of Newt’s hand to brush his fingers up the inside of his arm. “Your point is taken,” he says. “And now that we are both sufficiently reassured, I believe you promised kissing.”

“That I did. And maybe a little bit of touching too, because you’ve had your hands all over me but I haven’t had a go yet.”

“Newton, darling, there is nothing stopping you from putting your hands all over yourself if that is what you wish.”

Newt shuts him up by kissing him. It’s highly effective. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hermann Gottlieb is a poet. Don't tell me otherwise. 
> 
> Title from "Roar".


End file.
